


The Crossroads

by HallowQueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2019-11-14 07:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18048104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowQueen/pseuds/HallowQueen
Summary: Harry, caught up in the power of the Deathly Hallows and realising their danger, begs Hermione Granger to return them to their rightful owner. When symbolically returning them, she like the Three Brothers, meets Death, and he gives her an option to fix things. Scarred by the many losses in the war, Hermione agrees, walks into Death's embrace...and wakes up in 1948 with a set of new memories and a new family -- three brothers. Now, she must work with her strange family to try and curtail Tom Riddle's plans.If only she didn't keep getting distracted by Orion Black, who is trying desperately to avoid his cousin Walburga and being sold into marriage like his cousin Cygnus.





	1. The Request

“Hermione,  _ please.” _ Harry said, looking at his best friend. “You  _ have _ to take them. Look what they did to Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and everyone before them. I...they don’t belong here.”

Hermione, tired, scarred, and still not sleeping well, weeks after the end of the war, could only stare at her best friend and the Boy-Who-Won. “Harry...this isn’t for me to do. If you want it done,  _ you _ should do it.”

Harry looked at her, the haunted look from the war back in his eyes. “I’ve tried.” He admitted. “I’ve started to go to the place in the book, but every time I...I can’t do it, Hermione. I’m not strong enough.”

“Harry…” Hermione whispered, pained. 

“ _ Please _ , Hermione.” Harry repeated.

“All right.” Hermione said, taking the cloak from her friend, folded and wrapped around a wand and a stone. “All right, Harry. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Harry breathed in relief. “Thank you, Hermione.”

* * *

 

The books she recovered from Grimmauld Place suggested that death could be summoned anywhere that was in-between. The only thing that seemed necessary was a liminal place, and undiluted wine. 

Ever a student of folklore, Hermione chose the crossroads by the graveyard where the symbol of the Deathly Hallows lay engraved on the Potters’ headstones. It seemed appropriate. As the bell tolled midnight, she poured out the wine into the small put she had dug.  Holding her wand in front of her, the cloth of the cloak cool in her fingers, she chanted. “ _ Ex tempore inter me voca. Ex tempore inter me voca. Ex tempore inter me voca. _ ” Tine and the clock seemed to freeze in between chimes.

A sudden wind stirred up, making her shiver, and she heard a voice behind her. “It is not your time. Why do you call me, child?”

Hermione turned, seeing a man in a dark cloak. “I...Harry asked me to...to return your Hallows, sir.” Was sir correct? Was there something more formal she should call Death?

“And why is he not here?” Death asked. 

“He tried.” Hermione admitted. “But he couldn’t. He asked me to do it in his stead.”

“He is afraid of me.” Death noted. 

“He’s lost a lot.” Hermione admitted. “He finally has a chance.”

“And you?” Death queried. “Do you not have a chance? Aren’t you afraid?”

Hermione swallowed hard, the words bittern in her mouth. “I have nothing left to lose. The war….took everything.” Her parents were gone, obliviated, her friendship with Ron shattered when she found herself unable to trust him outside of the heat of battle. She couldn’t help but bring up his abandonment on the Horcrux hunt, even though she knew he had been influenced, and his increased drinking since Fred’s death had only made the fights worse. 

“The war took many who were not intended to meet me yet.” Death agreed, holding out his arms. “You are indeed brave, child, a credit to your house. I cannot take the Hallows from you. You must give them to me of your own free will.”

Hermione stepped forward, and gently placed the cloak in Death’s arms. “I return these,” she said softly. “Of my own free will.”

Death sighed, and took the stone from the fabric, turning it over twice. “It is been a long time since a witch or wizard has done something like this.” He said, solemnly. “Tell me, child...if I offered you a boon, would you take it?”

Hermione shook her head, curls flying. “I wouldn’t trust myself. I could do great harm. I could start a new war, create a new Dark Lord.”

The skeletal fingers of Death scraped against the stone. “You have returned my Hallows, after centuries, that must be repaid.”

Hermione shook her head. “I only want peace. Like there should have been.”

Death looked up, balefire burning in empty eye-sockets. “If I gave you the chance, would you walk back with me, if it meant this war never happened. If you could stop this war in its infancy?”

Hermione swallowed. “Harry...Harry would have his parents?” Have his parents like she no longer could.

“It would all be over before his parents were born.” Death agreed. “Lives, cut short, restored to where they should be. Life and death in balance again.”

Hermione swallowed. “Will it hurt?”

Death seemed to frown. “It would be a life. More painful than some, less than others.”

Hermione squared her shoulders. “What must I do?”

Death smiled, swallowing the stone, and opening his rope to place the wand into his chest, where it seemed to become a rib. “Embrace me, Hermione Granger.”

Hermione swallowed, casting a look at the cemetery wall, before walking forward.

Death chuckled, wrapping his arms around her, and then settling the cloak over them both.

Then, everything went dark.


	2. Disillusioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione wakes up in 1948 and makes a few discoveries.

Hermione woke from the best sleep she had had in years, a soft comforter against her cheek. She groaned, loathe to leave the warm nest that she had found. There was no tightness across the scar on her chest, no dull ache from the carvings on her arm, it was perfect.

“Annie!” A rambunctious voice yelled, and then there was a belly flop on top of her.

Hermione opened her eyes in shock, staring down at the brown-haired boy in shock. “Wha--?” She managed breathlessly.

“Dad’s making pancakes, Annie!” The boy said, staring at her, with strange reddish-brown eyes. “It’s your first day! You can’t be late!”

“I…” Hermione replied, blinking. “I...where am I?”

The boy startled, and then got serious. “Oh.” He said slowly, sounding far less child-like. “You’ve woken up.”

“Yes?” Hermione said slowly.

“My apologies, then.” The young boy said, clambering off the bed, and making a short bow. “Between family, my name is Ignotus. In public and elsewhere, I’m Ferrous Carrefour. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ignotus…” Hermione repeated. “Like the tale of the three brothers?” Suddenly she remembered the choice she had made, and shuddered slightly.

“The very same.” Ignotus offered. “Our punishment is your reward, little sister. For challenging and failing Death, we must right things when they go wrong. You...you chose this. Welcome to our chance to end Voldemort before he is more than whispers.” He smiled at her, the words strange out of a child.

Hermione looked up as the figure of a brown-haired man stopped at the now-open door. He was perfectly nondescript, average hair, average weight, normal but well-tailored robes. His eyes, though...the moment she looked into his red-brown eyes, thousands of memories broke over her mind.

“Good morning, daughter.” Death crooned.

“Father.” The word came to her lips, before she could process it, the dual image of Death at the crossroads melded with a thousand memories of Desmond Carrefour, pureblood French wizard and her father.

And she...she was both English muggleborn Gryffindor Hermione Granger and pureblood witch, Antimony Carrefour, fresh from Beauxbatons, about to start a career as a cursebreaker for the English ministry.

“Ah, there you are.” Death said with a smile. “Right on time. Come, let’s have some breakfast before you head to work."

Hermione mechanically nodded, and twenty minutes later she was introduced to her new ‘brothers,’ with all the new memories about Argent and Cinnabar Carrefour, and kind old-time introductions to Antioch and Cadmus Peverell. More startling was their ‘mother,’ a beautiful blonde witch, with Hermione’s curls, who, as an introduction merely quoted Coleridge at her, and finished with: “But mum is fine, and Asphodel if you’re introducing me to others.”

The pancakes were good, though. Who knew Death could cook?

* * *

 Argent was more than glad to escort her to the Ministry, where he made sure she was comfortable at her new desk in the Office for the Removal of Curses, Jinxes, and Hexes before heading to his office in the Auror Department. In some strange way, he actually reminded Hermione of how protective Harry could be of her. She felt a pang for her oldest friend, but then reminded herself that when she, the Peverells, Death, and his wife had destroyed Voldemort her best friend would be able to live a normal life with a normal family.

She had a few mundane assignments stacked up on her desk, odds and ends to test the skill of the new girl, if she was any judge. A few biting teacups, hexed hangers who would attack shoplifters, and a cursed tome that reminded her of her third year and _The Monster Book of Monsters._ Hopefully after a few days they would punt her something that was _challenging_ , or at least required a bit of research.

* * *

 It was in the very small tea room for the floor that everything changed. She had been turned towards the magical kettle, about to reach out and pour the tea, when the door banged slightly behind her. She turned, wand instantly in hand, only for the wizard who entered to make a gesture for quiet as he cast a disillusionment charm on himself. He moved away from the door, toward her, and she was suspicious...until the door banged open, revealing a black-haired woman in silk robes. “Orion?” She called.

Hermione felt her breath catch just slightly as the invisible wizard pressed back against the counter, and in doing so, her side. She resisted the urge to clear her throat. “May I help you, Miss?”

The witch looked down her nose at her. “ _I_ am looking for my _betrothed_.” She said curtly. “Have you seen him?”

Hermione played up Antimony’s French accent slightly. “I believe I heard a wizard just hurrying by saying something about the Department of International Cooperation.” She said sweetly, recognising the voice. “There’s a lift at the end of the floor.”

“Hnnn.” Walburga Black said dismissively, leaving the room without so much as a ‘thank you.’

Hermione glared after the admittedly pretty witch as she slammed the door. “ _Salope_.” The part of her that was completely in touch with Antimony’s memories made her mutter. It was vulgar, but Hermione had been subjected to the woman’s portrait enough to not feel the slightest hint of guilt. Antimony’s memories, also found the woman’s way of looking down her nose at her to be presumptuous. The British focus on their arbitrary “Sacred Twenty-Eight’ made them pull away from the larger magical community. Death’s family were well-established as powerful purebloods across the channel, but all people knew here were Malfoys and Rosiers.

She felt rather than saw the shift in magic as Orion Black let the disillusionment charm fade away. “Your betrothed is _entirely_ without manners.” Hermione remarked. “I cannot blame you for hiding.”

“She’s _not_ my betrothed.” Orion Black spat. “She only wishes she were. I will fight it until my father commands it absolutely.”

Hermione turned slightly, tilting her head at him in surprise. “You’re not what I expected, Mr. Black.” He was gorgeous, of course, _that_ she had anticipated, after looking through photos of a younger Sirius, but beyond that, she had expected someone… reprehensible. A dyed in the wool blood purist, so dedicated to _Toujours Pur_ as to marry his own second cousin. A man who would disown his own son. Now...she suspected it was all down to Walburga. Orion certainly wasn’t blameless, she suspected he was darker than she knew, but she was...curious. It was always one of her failings.

“Oh?” Orion asked, taking a step closer, grey eyes fixed on her face. “And what had you expected, Miss…?”

“The reputation of the Ancient and Noble House of Black _has_ crossed the channel, you know.” Antimony said, the Hermione in her refusing to look away and make excuses, despite proper etiquette in 1948. “ _She_ seems a perfect example, dark wizards and witches, so sure they know anyone of value and confident in her pure blood and superiority that she snubs a foreign pureblood without so much as a courtesy while pretending to be utterly proper. You, on the other hand…run from her.”

Orion chuckled. “It’s not all undeserved. My darkness tends to run differently. Purity of _power,_ purity of _magic._ ” A smile hinted at his lips, and despite herself, Hermione felt the air between them crackle with something. _That_ she could respect, but how could she square it with what she had known? How had Orion gone from this to a man whose trousers Hreacher had once snogged.

Hermione smartly removed her wand from her robe sleeve, and waved it over him. “Your would-be betrothed is not so circumspect. There’s a rather intricate compulsion laid on your….cuff-links?” Hermione barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was a rather good plan, as a proper gentleman was rarely seen without them, except unless you enchanted every pair, someone as rich as Orion would change them regularly. "Though I am unsure what it was intended to do."

“What?” Orion said, looking down at the golden cuff links. “How could I not notice that?”

Hermione chuckled. “It looks old and intricate, probably a spell from a family grimoire. The magic was probably similar enough to slide under your defences.” She waved her hand. “I’ve free time, if you want to follow me back to my desk in Curses, Jinxes, and Hexes.” She reached past him to _finally_ fill her cup of tea.”

“Witch, if you can free me from that hag, I will follow you anywhere.” Orion swore.

“I imagine _that_ would take more than a cup of tea and would involve more than just some cufflinks.” Hermione said with a laugh. “I imagine she’s the type to use a permanent sticking charm on your person, if she were able.” Antimony’s mind, slightly more cunning than her Gryffindor counterpart, saw an in -- if she could remove the Black family from Tom Riddle’s supporters, or even divide the House against him, more than just Sirius and Alphard, that could divide his pureblood power base. She walked past him, wanting to see if he would follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Asphodel Carrefour/ Mrs. Death quotes Coleridge it's from Part III of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
> 
> Is that a DEATH? and are there two?  
> Is DEATH that woman's mate? 
> 
> Her lips were red, her looks were free,  
> Her locks were yellow as gold:  
> Her skin was as white as leprosy,  
> The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,  
> Who thicks man's blood with cold.


	3. Two Sides to Every Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orion and Hermione both tell others their perspective about what happened when Antimony broke the curse on the cufflinks.

Orion Black was seated in Oxtooth, in Mayfair, nursing the good single malt straight from the MacDougal’s distillery. This was one of only a few places where you could have it served to you. Normally, on a night like tonight...or any night, he’d be at an entirely different kind of club, taking advantage of his time as an entitled heir in one of the underground clubs everyone knew existed but everyone pretended did not.  _ Usually _ he’d be slamming down cheap firewhiskey like water and spending his youth before his father’s wishes caught up with him. Lately, however, Walburga has been circling his haunts like a fury and ruining what time he had left. Now, of course, she sought to ruin his days as well. So, the gentlemen's club and fine Scotch whisky replaced cheap firewhiskey and pretty witches. Usually, he’d be bothered, but he had another witch on his mind. 

Taking another long drag from his glass, he turned to his friend. “Laurent, you know all the French pureblood families, right?”

Laurent Rosier snorted. “As you knew the Sacred Twenty-Eight from the cradle, my friend. Why?”

Orion glanced at the fireplace. “I met a witch today, at the Ministry. Fresh from Beauxbatons. What do you know of the Carrefour family?”

Laurent sat up straight at that, the leather beneath him creaking at the sharp movement. “There are Carrefours in Britain?” He tilted his head in consideration. “That means things are going to get interesting.”

Orion was surprised by the interest. “Why?” He asked, sitting up straighter, silver eyes gleaming with the need for more information. 

Laurent waved slightly. “All countries have their dark and light families, but they also tend to have grey families, families touched by death. England has the Peverells, the three brothers who met death.”

“Extinct in the male line, but yes.” Orion agreed. 

Laurent tilted his glass in acknowledgement. “Italy has the Malatestas, whose founder, they say, gambled with Death and was named for his stubborn head. France has the Carrefours, a family founded by a thirteenth son, who was a very great healer and always knew when someone would die because Death was his godfather.” He finished his drink. “Truth or tall tale, where a family associated with death goes, interesting things happen. As it is, the Carrefours are purebloods. They tend to have larger families, though nothing of uncouth size, and throw amazing healers, alchemists, potioneers and cursebreakers, but people say it’s because they understand the causes so well. You can’t brew an antidote if you don’t understand the poison, or break a curse without intimate knowledge of casting it.” 

Orion chuckled, thinking back to the witch in her office. “ _ That _ , I believe, even if everything else seems...fantastical..”

* * *

_ Orion watched as the witch strode down the hallway. There was no exaggeration to her movements, nothing meant to tempt or entice. She was not dressed in acromantula silk or fine lace tailored to fashion, but in dueling robes that wwere fit to give her the best range of motion. There was a kind of confidence and self-assurance...a power...that dark wizard as he was, intrigued him. Not many were so confident in their skills as to think they could unravel a Black family curse.  _

_ The desk was sparse, organized, save for a  _ purring tome  _ on the side. “Who are you?” He asked, manners forgotten as he dropped the cuff links into her waiting hand.  _

_ “My name is...Antimony Carrefour.” She answered, with a kind of pause that made him think she might be afraid that he would report it elsewhere for insulting his cousin.  _

_ “A pleasure to meet you,  _ Mademoiselle. _ ” He purred instead, sprawling lazily on the chair across from her desk, like the rakish young heir he rather thought himself. “Beauxbatons?” _

_ “ _ Oui _.” She answered with a smile. “The Ministry recruited me out of school, due to my arithmancy and ancient runes project.”  _

_ Orion found himself fascinated as the witch worked over the cuff links, pulling the strands of the curse apart, the cuff links letting off small wisps of magic as she tore the curse to shreds. There was a surprising amount of power in how she made such small and precise wand movements to follow the structure of the spell. He had no idea how long he watched, before she finished, dropping them into his hand.  _

_ “Done.” Antimony said, taking a sip of her tea. “But I would take careful inventory of your things, and perhaps those of your paterfamilias, Mr. Black.” _

_ “I would give you leave to call me Orion, my lady, were it not improper.” He said respectfully, because really, he had to respect the kind of power and control it had shown. “Might I have leave to call on you in future?” _

_ The witch smiled. “Only if you go back to the man who spoke to me earlier, and return to the gentleman only in company.” _

_ Orion laughed. “Done!” _

* * *

Hermione slammed into the living room of the Georgian townhouse with a small noise that was only too low to be called a shriek. Her curls were ruffled from her hands going through them, and her new reddish-brown eyes were wide. “You need to  _ fix _ the French tart in my head.” She said, voice slightly higher than normal. 

The family, who was lounging around enjoying ‘family time,’ before dinner all stared at her. 

“Uh...did she just call herself a tart?” Cinnabar asked nervously. “That is what I heard, right?”

“No.” Hermione spat out, words coming quicker along with her breath. “ _ I _ am not a tart.  _ I  _  am the bookworm who never got asked to go to Hogsmeade. I’m the witch who had a grand total of five dates in my life. One relationship with a Bulgarian who I decided wasn’t practical to hold onto over long-distance and the other with my best friend, who slept with someone else while drunk  _ because something always felt wrong when I tried to do more than snog him! _ ” 

Ferrous winced as her voice got shriller, but Asphodel rose from the settee like a queen and approached her. She realised that her daughter was having issues integrating and wasn't far from a full-blown panic attack. The first life with more than one set of memories was always the hardest.

“I don’t just  _ meet _ people.” Hermione was ranting. “It took a  _ mountain troll _ for me to make friends...and I don’t...I’m not...I mean, Sirius was _pretty_ , but he was so  _ reckless _ and mean to Kreacher...but he loved Harry...and he always said his family, but Orion  _ hates  _  her…” She was waving her hands, and put them through her hair again. “Something...something went wrong when you pulled me here, Death. I’m not...I’m not...like this.  __ The last time I liked someone because they were  _ handsome _ they were  _ idiotic.  _ I’m supposed to be a spinster with a hundred kneazles, I’m here to stop the war, not to...not to... _ argh! _ ”

Asphodel reached out and wrapped her arms around her daughter, who was hyperventilating. “You are all of the things you said you were.” Asphodel said, placing a hand over Hermione’s heart, to try and help her ease her growing panic. “But you are everything that is Antimony as well. You remember both, so you can make choices with the wisdom of both. Just because we mean to end Tom Riddle and his abominations, does not mean however, that you have to be alone.”

“But I’m _not_ that shallow.” Hermione said, sounding heartbroken. “I shouldn’t...be attracted...to someone just because they’re pretty. I...I’m not like that. I don’t just want to climb random wizards like a  _ tree _ . Something  _ has _ to be wrong. He’s meant to marry  _ her. _ ”

“Your magic is probably compatible.” Cinnabar observed. “It happens sometimes with powerful witches and wizards, and being of Death gives you a boost. Your magic finds his attractive. It doesn’t change who you are or make you shallow, sister. It doesn’t take away choice, either.”

“And our entire point here is to rewrite everything.” Argent pointed out, putting down his book. “Everything is in flux. Nothing is meant to be, Antimony. Not anymore.”

Desmond, seeing that Hermione had calmed, and that Asphodel had gathered her onto the settee, handed her a biscuit. “Tell us what happened, little one.”

* * *

_ Hermione had always disliked leaving a mystery unsolved, but Antimony  _ hated _ it. The fact that Orion Black didn’t square up to what Hermione had known intrigued her. In some small part of her mind, Hermione had even wondered whether life could be better for Sirius than it was. She had always felt she had failed him, not stopping Harry that night. If she could break the compulsion spell, if she could ensure Orion never turned into the man that would stand back and let Walburga do the things she had, maybe she could help Sirius.  _

_ Antimony, on the other hand, with her pureblood training saw a useful and quite handsome ally. The Blacks were an Ancient and Noble House and Orion next in line to be paterfamilias. Set against Riddle, they could be used. It didn’t hurt that something in his carefree attitude called to the part of her that just never got to let go. _

_ She held out her hand for the cuff links after they were at her desk, and the metal was warm in her palm, throbbing with magic. Not obvious on his person, but separated, bery obviously sorcelled. _

_ Who are you?” Orion asked abruptly. _

_ It took a moment to answer, the two personalities both focused on the puzzle in front of them, and neither quite sure of their identity when they were still very separate. Argent had assured her that they would blend more, but that had yet to happen. Logic, cool and comforting, won out in the end. “My name is...Antimony Carrefour.” _

_ “A pleasure to meet you,  _ Mademoiselle. _ ” Orion purred, and the witch, or witches, felt their pulse jump. His voice was like silk, and Antimony had to focus twice as hard not to lose her place in her work on the links as she fought the urge to shiver. He continued. “Beauxbatons?” _

_ “ _ Oui _.” She answered, hoping that she had smiled without blushing or looking the fool. “The Ministry recruited me out of school, due to my arithmancy and ancient runes project.”  _

_ She was able to fall refreshingly silent as she worked, despite the skittering feeling on her neck. The curse was really well done, but the anchor rune as poor. If Walburga got better, it would take Hermione a long time to pick up on anything like this. But then, the woman had always been insidious, just like her damnable portrait. “Done.” Antimony said, finally, avoiding meeting his eyes right away by taking a sip of her tea. “But I would take careful inventory of your things, and perhaps those of your paterfamilias, Mr. Black.” If Walburga wanted him, who knew what lengths she would go to? It was hard to tell, because apparently everything Hermione Granger had known about Orion Black was wrong. She dropped the cuff links into his hand. _

_ “I would give you leave to call me Orion, my lady, were it not improper. Might I have leave to call on you in future?” _

_ Hermione had little experience with wizards, and Ron had never been formal. Viktor had asked her something similar once, but where Hermione was out of her element, Antimony was sure. Especially because they  _ both _ knew the sinful thoughts the wizard in front of them caused. He was the sort of wizard who would act the gentleman during tea, eyes burning you alive, and then shag you six ways from Sunday on the parlour floor.  _

_ Or well, that was what Antimony hoped when she completely ignored her past  _ (future?)  _ life shrieking in her head. “Only if you go back to the man who spoke to me earlier, and return to the gentleman only in company.” _

_ Orion laughed, and she shivered. “Done!” _


	4. The Bear's Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcturus Black is surprised by his son...and curious.

Arcturus Black was a bit of a tyrant with his family. He would never argue otherwise. Outside of the family, of course, he was known for his constant generosity. He was a firm believer in the true meaning of _noblesse oblige_ , but that required him to hold others he saw as nobility and _especially_ his family to the highest possible standard. They had to uphold the honour, the name, and the magic of those that had come before them. His daughter had made a good match to a Prewett, but his son made him worry. He was often too much like his mother. While Arcturus loved his wife, he could not help but see Melania as one who coddled their son when he needed to be strong. The boy never seemed to be touched by anything, never seemed to take anything with proper weight.

That was, until Orion banged into his father’s study with a box, practically snarling in rage. Something had gotten under his skin. “That _wench_ ,” He hissed, dropping the box on his father’s desk. “Has so alienated every pureblood male worth anything that Uncle Pollux cannot find her a match that she _dares_ to place compulsion spells on our things. On me! On _you_ , her paterfamilias!” He put his hands on the desk. “I want to ask a cursebreaker to come through our home. If we have been living with _these_ for Merlin knows how long, who knows what else might be hidden.”

Arcturus raised an eyebrow, withdrawing one of his brandy snifters from the box and inspecting it, before waving his wand over the cut crystal. It could be a ploy. Walburga had made it clear to one and all that she would only marry the best, that she was born a Black and would die a Black. Orion had made it just as substantially clear that in his opinion, she could die a spinster. He could have created the spells himself to give his father reason to deny Walburga’s wish. However, it could also be true. “How did you discover this, my son?”

Orion seemed to calm and turn serious at the fact that his father was listening and not just _telling_. Perhaps he was growing up, albeit behind schedule. “I was at the Ministry today, reading over the docket for the month for the Wizengamot, as I do each time it is  released. Walburga arrived, and when her....strident tones...made her approach obvious, I disillusioned myself and slipped by her. She chased me around the Ministry, and while avoiding her, I met the new cursebreaker the Ministry recruited from France, a Carrefour. She found that my cuff-links had been laid with a compulsion, and removed it. She then suggested that I check Sidereum Hall.” He gave a slight nod to his father, gesturing to their home. “After checking her file at the Ministry and her bloodline with the Rosiers, I decided to take her advice, and found these.” He tilted his head down in respect. “I’d like to have her come and check for more of Walburga’s work.”

Arcturus watched his son for a moment, considering this. “Walburga has certainly never hidden what she has wanted, nor have you hidden your disdain for the match.” His son had been downright rude when Arcturus had first brought the suggestion to his attention. “How do I know this isn’t a ploy to avoid a match with her, so that you can continue your...activities?”

Orion’s eyes widened slightly. “I would not be so weak as to lay compulsions on you. Nor would I try it. You would meet with an _unfortunate accident_ before I would sink so low.”

Arcturus actually chuckled at that. He was surprised by the statement, but perhaps he should not have been. They were Blacks, after all. “And if I were to sign a contract with Pollux for you and Walburga?”

Orion paused. “Before I knew about the spells...I should like to say that if you ordered it, I would obey, for the honour of the family, as much as I loathed her. Now, I would say one of us would not make it to our wedding day. I do not think anyone would miss her...and there is always Cygnus to carry on the name.”

That made Arcturus’s eyes widen. It was not unusual to hear threats of death and dismemberment from Blacks, some portraits could not even be kept in the same room, but a statement like that was unusual. “If I reject Walburga, regardless of curses, you will repay me by leaving off of your paramours and look to seriously court a proper witch.” He bargained.

“Done.” Orion replied, relieved.

* * *

“Why couldn’t we have gone back to the Marauders time?” Hermione muttered, as she crumpled the letter the owl had brought her from work, warning her that a ‘prominent member of the Wizengamot,’ had requested a search. It spoiled her breakfast, and she picked at her pastry. “Headstrong Gryffindors I know how to deal with.”

“Because when your ‘Marauders,’ were made aware that there was a problem, Riddle had already created a very large power base of loyalists.” Desmond remarked lightly. “Already sworn to his ideals. Right now he is a charismatic young man, with a few powerful friends, but there are more powerful. If we want to prevent the travesties, we must be here, rather than when his power was quite strong.”

Hermione grumbled into raspberry jam. “I hate that you’re logical.”

“Time gives all things perspective.” Desmond murmured, an echo to his voice. “And death gives them their proper size.”

“And you know how to deal with power-hungry purebloods.” Asphodel remarked. “I know you do, because I taught you how for years. You just have to let yourself know it again.” She smiled. “You know how to batter a woman with Battenberg cake over tea and how to manipulate the courtesies and forms of old. I know them all, because I’ve seen them all, and I’ve taught you.”

Hermione sighed, knowing she would let Antimony come to the forefront. Strangely, it was easier to accept her new family, to hold onto her affection for them, to hug Ferrous or Argent than it was for her to accept _herself_ , or as she often thought of it, the other witch in her head. They jockeyed for position, but they had both come to love their family. Hermione thought it was largely because of the loss of her muggle parents and the loneliness of being an only child. “Fine…”

Argent spoke in between bites of bacon. “They always send a member of the DMLE when they do raids or cleanouts.” He observed. “If whoever this is ranks highly, it’ll be an Auror. I’ll try to get assigned with you.” He grinned. “Be glad for older brothers, they’ll think you’re being respectful, by bringing a familial escort instead of a random auror or hit-wizard.”

Hermione just groaned.

* * *

Arcturus Black rose to his feet as the house-elf opened the door to the parlour. He studied the two in front of him. The witch was dressed in duelling robes instead of a more fashionable choice, but her curly brown hair was arranged in a very fashionable French fashion, and the gloves she was wearing appeared to be silk. The wizard was dressed in Auror robes, but based on the eye colour and the nose, was probably a sibling. It was obvious pureblood etiquette, not wanting to be left alone with strange males in a strange home -- guarding her reputation. His respect of the family nudged up just a bit.

“Miss Antimony Carrefour and her brother Mister Argent Carrefour, Master.” The elf declared.

Arcturus gave a shallow bow, watching as they responded. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you, Lord Black.” Antimony replied, with a smile. “Once more, if you don’t mind; you invite us into your halls?”

Arcturus was startled, and only resisted the urge to blink through years of training. “I do.” He said solemnly, wondering when the last time someone had observed such formalities. The two walked into the room.

“My employers at the Ministry tell me that you wish me to search your home for curses, hexes, jinxes and the like, Lord Black?” Antimony questioned.

“Indeed, Miss Carrefour.” Arcturus said, inclining his head towards her. “My son Orion told me how you discovered the charm on his person, and suggested a similar search of our home I was hoping you would be open to doing the same.” He had replaced the charmed objects Orion had found through the drawing room, dining room, and parlours to see if the witch could actually find them, but just to press the test further he had laced a few different curses on some of the cheaper knick-knacks through the same rooms to see just how strong she was.

“I’d be glad to.” Antimony replied, and Arcturus watched as she began, still for a moment before drawing her wand. She seemed to wander around the parlour for several moments, and if Arcturus hadn’t been watching so closely he would have thought she was simply looking with her eyes, but he caught the slight twitches of the wand, and the tightening of her lips. She plucked each item laced with compulsion charms from its place and removed it with quiet incantations, before moving onto the next.

What startled Arcturus though, was when her wandless hand stopped an inch from one of the pieces he had cursed. She hummed curiously, and gently removed it from the sideboard. Her wand twitched, and he thought she would remove it, but then she stopped, tilting her head. “This one was not cursed by the same person. Do you wish me to remove it as well, Lord Black?”

Arcturus hid his surprise. “As you would, Miss Carrefour.”

Antimony, shifted her wand hand. She used her wand to draw what a sharp-eyed Arcturus realised was a rune. “You give me permission to alter this magic?”

Something in her voice, the formality in it, gave him pause, and something clicked into place. He paused, blanching, holding his hand out for the old piece of ugly statuary his Hufflepuff wife had been too kind to throw out. “Perhaps not.” He said finally. This young witch knew old magic, not just what they taught at Hogwarts. The formal query to enter the parlour...the redundant seeking of permission towards the item he had cursed. Giving consent three times...that was power. Arcturus Black respected power, but he did his best to give as little of it out as possible. Unlike Pollux, who wrapped power up in House ties, Orion knew power came from many sources. Many had mocked him when he had married Melania -- a MacMillan, a Hufflepuff, but Arcturus knew better. He knew the power contained in the tiny witch. It seemed the witch Orion had found was very similar. He suspected his son was interested in her as more than a cursebreaker.

“As you like.” The witch replied, and he followed her from room to room, watching fascinated as Arithmancy and runes flowed from her wand with ease. “Usually people who can read another’s magic find themselves as wandmakers.”

“My father dabbles in wandcraft.” Antimony replied, not looking up from her work. “I can’t read it the way he or the Ollivanders can, it’s more that the webs are slightly different, the Arithmancy from the cast, from the person’s wand, blood, astrology...it makes the _balance_ of their magic different.”

“Fascinating,” Arcturus remarked. “Is such a gift common in your line?”

Antimony offered a small Gallic shrug. “Not uncommon. Power is power, and its’ gifts are numerous.”

“Indeed, Miss Carrefour.” Arcturus agreed. “Indeed.”

Antimony glanced up, and smiled at him. "I believe you do see what I mean. So few do anymore. They get so wrapped up in petty ideas of what power comes from that they lose sight of what it  _is_. You seem wiser than that."


	5. Dreams and Other Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond meets Tom Riddle, Hermione and Orion have a few distracting dreams, Orion has a talk with Arcturus, Pollux gets bad news and Melania hosts a tea party,

Death had worn countless faces, but he preferred this one to many that were more intimidating. Nondescript, easily forgotten, that was how he preferred to float through the world. It just so happened that such a guise suited his purposes well, here and now. He had watched Borgin and Burke’s for several days, before deciding to make his move. The trinket he had chosen was old, and lethal, something that spoke of being part of a rare collection, without being worth so much that whoever would be parting with it was desperate. His goal was to look as if he wanted to ‘refresh’ his collection. It was dark, or what wizards  _ considered _ dark, just because it had belonged to him for so long. Death was rarely appreciated or understood. 

The shop was dirty, grimy, and it was all too simple to sneer a bit. The further people slid from understanding, the more they backslid into filth. It had its place, of course, decay and rebirth went hand in hand, but his wife would have had his head if he tried to  _ decorate _ with it. They had their period of... _high drama_ , but after she had seen too many unflattering representations a la Coleridge she had promptly set new rules. Currently, she was enjoying Art Nouveau a bit too much.

Tom Riddle was behind the counter, and his eyes were taking in Desmond Carrefour’s new face with an interest that Death would make an advantage. “Can I help you, sir?” The young, aspiring Dark Lord queried. 

“I had been told that this... _ shop _ ...was somewhere to revitalise my collection of curios, but I’m beginning to doubt that.” 

Tom gave him a customer service smile. “Most of what you see is tawdry baubles, to keep the Ministry and those less knowledgeable aware. Please, come to the counter, I’m sure we can determine a fair price for whatever it is you’ve brought.”

Desmond picked his way through the shop, eyeing worn blackthorn stangs and sea witch’s eggs. He laid the box down on the counter, with an air of someone who expected very little.  He waved to allow Tom to open it.

Tom Riddle opened the box, and despite himself, his eyes went wide and dark with avarice. “Yes, sir. I’d say we’re very interested in helping you with your collection.”

* * *

_ His hand pulled out hairpins as his mouth hovered over hers. He wanted to see that hair unrestrained, and preferably splayed out underneath him over his dusk-grey sheets. The other hand passed gently over her cheek and the curve of her neck, her skin like satin, pausing at her pulse to feel her heartbeat flutter under his fingers. She was warm, so warm, and he wanted nothing more than to press his lips to hers, take her to his bed, and never let her go. Instead, he stilled, a breath away, not wanting to be like Walburga, refusing to push, refusing to  _ compel _. “Tell me what you want.” He said, half-demanding, half-plea.  _

_ She licked her perfect plush lips, and he was so close he could feel her breath mingling with his. “Orion…” She murmured. _

* * *

“...ORION! LITTLE MASTER ORION!” 

Orion was pulled from his absolutely...invigorating dream by the ultimate cold splash of aguamenti, the squeaky voice of his nanny elf. His mother had been more mothering and nurturing than most of his Housemates’ mothers, but she had still gotten busy or distracted, and Orion had always been a handful. She hadn’t given in until he was two and had thrown his grandmother’s hat into the floo. 

“Whassat, Twist?” He muttered, lifting his head. He had been up late, and didn’t fancy waking, especially from the dream he had been having. 

Twist huffed at him, marching right over and pulling on his ear. “Little Master has been summoned by Master. Master wants him in the study, he does.” Twist looked over him with a clinical and disapproving house-elf eye, and snapped, instantly magically cleaning the young man from head to toe. “Little Master sleeps too much.”

Orion knew better than to grumble at his nanny elf, and obediently got up and took the clothes he was handed. He just hoped he wasn’t being summoned to sign his life away to the hag.

* * *

“...Black, and then I think we’ll…”

“What?” Hermione asked, coming out of her twisted maze of thoughts that had been plaguing her since she woke this morning. She looked down at her muffin, which she had apparently mangled into tiny bits instead of eating. 

“Oho,  _ that _ got her attention.” Cinnabar teased. “Not like some of us were trying to get your attention for two minutes, Annie.”

Hermione fought the urge to blush, sniffing instead. “I was running arithmantic formulae in my head. I’m a bit more Hermione this morning.”

“We tried that too.” Ferrous pointed out, snickering. 

Hermione humphed, and ignored the amused snickers to look at Asphodel. “What were you saying we are we doing today, Mum?”

Asphodel had the good grace to hide most of her amusement behind a more stately smile. “Shopping and then tea with Lady Black. She’s having some ladies over, and after you impressed her husband, she included us.”

“Ah.” Hermione murmured, taking a sip of her lukewarm breakfast tea. “That sounds acceptable.” What was it Dumbledore had told Harry once? ‘ _ It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” _ No matter how... _ electrifying... _ those dreams might be.

* * *

Melania Black was a Hufflepuff, not stupid. When her husband had come to her, telling stories of compulsion charms and charming French cursebreakers, she could see he was impressed. She also wanted to wrap her hands around Walburga’s sallow wrist and push soul-deep pain into her for having the absolute  _ gall  _ to  _ dare _ curse her husband and son. She knew she could handle Walburga, though. This new girl was a mystery. She could be an even bigger threat, and while Melania wasn’t going to be cool or unfriendly, she  _ would  _ be watching. If she had to be the last defense for her son, so mote it be.

* * *

Arcturus Black rolled his quill between his fingers, watching his son. Something had shifted in Orion, and he was just beginning to see it. He didn’t know if it was due to seeing the possibility of his lifestyle disappear, his loathing of Walburga, seeing his sister settled and happy, or some combination thereof. He settled back in his chair. “You know what my signing this means, don’t you, son?”

“Yes, Father.” Orion answered, staring at the parchment. Arcturus signing in one space would tie his fate forever to Walburga, while signing in the other would deny her suit. 

“If I sign where you wish me too, you will give up your dalliances.” Arcturus reminded him. “There will be no sneaking of witches into your rooms, and thinking you’re pulling one over on us. There will be no more lewd behaviour in the clubs with random tarts. You  _ will _ select a good, powerful, and  _ polite  _ witch to court, and treat her with  _ respect. _ ”

Orion nodded. “I will, Father.”

“You can choose the other option, take your freedom, and be betrothed to Walburga.” Arcturus reminded him.

“I would rather be devoured eternally in the depths of Tartarus.” Orion scowled. “Sign it, Father. I so vow.”

Arcturus waited a moment more, quill poised, before placing his signature on the waiting line. The paper flashed a dull bronze, and disappeared. Looking up, he smiled at his son. “Now then, let’s look at the business, shall we?”

Orion gawked at his father. “You always said I wasn’t ready. Last year you placed Lucretia ahead of me.”

“Well, I was hardly going to give you power in the largest metal-charming company in Europe when you were stealing your sister’s shoes over a drunken bet.”

Orion was startled for a moment, before his lips quirked into a smirk. “A Black always fulfills his word...and I made those shoes work.”

* * *

Pollux Black was a hard man most would never dream of crossing. Arcturus, however, was not  _ most _ , and it would forever gall the proud man that he had been born of a cadet branch and too young to be paterfamilias. Arcturus had chosen to marry a  _ Hufflepuff,  _ and what was more, had honoured the witch by formally naming her Matriarch, as if she could understand the proper running of the House.

When the marriage contract reappeared on his desk, he grabbed at it greedily. Marrying his Walburga to Arcturus’s good-for-nothing son was his best chance of gaining some control over family affairs. Walburga properly respected her father, and Orion Black was such a pansy that he had no doubt his daughter could and would cow him into allowing her control. 

That was why when he opened the scroll he stared at it uncomprehending for a moment. Arcturus had scrawled his name on the ‘Rejection of Suit,’ line, and attached to the proposal was a formal letter of censure. He broke the seal and read quickly:

_ Writ of Censure against Walburga Tamora Black. _

_ In this, the year of 1948, I, Arcturus Black III, Order of Merlin: First Class, Paterfamilias of the Ancient and Noble House of Black do formally issue censure to Walburga Tamora Black, daughter of Pollux of the House of Black and Irma of the House of Crabbe.  _

_Censure is given for crimes against the House, in the form of over twenty detected illegal and family compulsion spells placed by the aforenamed witch upon items owned by both the Heir of House, Orion Nigellus Black and the Paterfamilias, Arcturus Antares Black III. The punishment for these severe crimes against blood and House are as follows:_

  1. _Denial of Suit: As Walburga Tamora Black has proven untrustworthy in her attempt to use family magic to unduly influence House affairs, her suit of marriage to Orion Nigellus Black is denied with prejudice._
  2. _Denial of Presence: Until such time as the Paterfamilias decides, Walburga Tamora Black shall be barred from the Ancestral Hall, beginning at sundown of the day of receipt._



_ Signed and Sealed on this day, the 15th of July, 1948. _

_ Lord Orion Black III (O.M.I) _

Slamming his hands on his desk, Pollux let out a roar of incoherent rage.

* * *

The tea was set with all the best day chinaware, the elves had created a spread that could easily become the envy of the ladies, and Melania herself was arrayed in a tea robe of raspberry silk. As much as people whispered about her family, her house, and her work with St. Mungo’s, no one could criticise her table. 

The guests arrived two by two, all arrayed similarly in a rainbow of colours. She smiled and greeted each woman to her house, somehow even managing to great Irma and Walburga without being too cool, though her fan might have slipped against the jumper up bitch’s wrist when Melania caught her proprietary glance around the gardens. 

As if it were planned, Madame and Mademoiselle Carrefour arrived second to last, late enough to draw attention, without being the party that the others were forced to wait for to begin the official socialising. Melania painted on a smile, for the two women. 

“Madame la Carrefour, Mademoiselle la Carrefour, welcome.” Melania burbled politely as all the usual ladies stared. “I’m so glad you were able to join us.”

“It is an honour to be invited to tea at one of Britain’s Ancient and Noble Houses,” Asphodel deflected, professionally. “It would be my honour if you would call me Asphodel, Lady Black.” She offered a slight head tilt and the barest of smiles, as addressing an equal. 

“Asphodel it is then,” Melania said, with a smile. “And this must be your daughter. I know she’s impressed my lord husband and son.”

“Yes, this is our Antimony. We are quite proud that she’s already making the right sorts of connections here in Britain.” Asphodel cast a side eye at Walburga that went unnoticed by everyone but Melania. “Crossing the channel can be a challenge, so _few_ nowadays understand _quality_.” 

Antimony sat harshly on Hermione, who was bristling at the perceived insult, thinking it was referencing blood status, while Antimony pushed harshly on her to see the slight to Walburga, and what all the double talk  _ meant _ in this case. “It is an honor to meet you, Lady Black,” She murmured, executing a perfect, respectful curtsy. “And indeed a pleasure to once again visit your beautiful home. It is a credit to you.”

Despite herself, Melania felt her concerns thaw, just slightly. It was rare someone complimented her home and considered it a credit to her and not to generations of Blacks before her. They just assumed all the work was already done.

“Thank you, Antimony. Please, join us. I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure to meet my daughter Lucretia?”

“I haven’t.” Antimony agreed, slipping into the party with ease, and pretending she didn’t feel the curious glances from the other partygoers, or the angry glare from Walburga. 


	6. Slings & Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orion makes his father proud, gets beat up by his familliar and causes Walburga to lose her cool, while Antimony and Hermione come to some sort of harmony while poking at the same.

Orion had numbers flying behind his eyes. He had always known that the Black business holdings were immense. There was a reason they were considered among the elite, and there had never been any doubt that Arcturus  _ worked _ in his study, unlike some Heads of House, but even  _ he _ hadn’t quite grasped the scope, or the way the vaults and funds had been diversified.  Still, he actually liked business, maths, and numbers, so after the generic review, he dug in, giving little opinions here and there. What he missed, as he began to expound on shifting trends in metal prices being predicted by dragon season year by year was the expression on his father’s face. It had been a long time since he had seen that kind of pride on Arcturus Black’s face. 

* * *

Hermione had taken to the tea party easily. Her family had been quite high class, despite working for a living. It had been one of the reasons that the disdain of people like Draco Malfoy has driven her so to prove herself. Strangely it was this that allowed the first real blending of she and Antimony. She smiled over Lucretia’s pregnancy, wishing her well in one breath, while deftly preventing Walburga an opening with Lagertha Rowle. Antimony would not let Walburga look down at her as she had in the Ministry.

In fact, Antimony took a great deal of pleasure in little slights and jabs at Walburga Black. Most people only noticed one or two, but hawk-eyed Melania noted at least five. It amused the Black matriarch. However, only the three of them heard the hardest dig.

“Some young witches have no faith in themselves.” Antimony said lightly, as Roberta Selwyn opined her daughter rejecting a suitor. “I think shows you a great mother, Lady Selwyn, that your daughter knows her worth and that she can do better. That says she is a strong witch, not weak and desperate like some who try and ply men with love potions or compulsion charms.”

Walburga turned redder than Melania’s gown, even as Roberta clasped Antimony’s hands in hers and thanked her. Melania smirked despite herself, a habit she had picked up from her husband. Really, Arcturus was a  _ terrible  _ influence. She was still cautious, but found herself liking the girl, despite it all.

* * *

After his father  _ finally _ released him from the study, reminding Orion that he must ‘ _ find a good witch _ ,’ he set out to do just that. He wrote a polite note to Antimony Carrefour and headed to his room. Harpier, his black banded owl, was sitting on her perch and hooted in greeting.

“Hey, my lady.” He crooned at her. “Can you take this letter to Antimony Carrefour?”

“Hoo.” Harpier replied, turning her back on him.

“Well why not?” Orion demanded.

Harpier turned back and smacked him with her wing. “Hoo!”

“What?” Orion said, blinking.

Harpier fluffed herself up and pointed her wing at the door.

“She’s  _ here _ ?” He said, trying to interpret his familiar’s attitude.

“Hoo.” Harpier agreed.

Orion felt stupid. No wonder the owl smacked him. He knew his mother was hosting a tea, that was why Arcturus chose to give Walburga until sundown, but he had no idea  _ Antimony  _ had been invited. He suddenly had an idea. He had an evil idea. He had a hilarious idea. He had a terrible idea. He had an evil, hilarious, _terrible_ idea. He trashed the note, and drew out a fresh card from his pocket, and wrote one message in appearing ink, and then flipped it upside down and wrote the other in disappearing ink.  He then grinned and slipped it into his signature black envelope for his calling cards, and wrote her name on the front in his most ostentatious penmanship, sealing it with expensive silver wax and the Black family crest. 

“Twist!” He called, grinning. 

Twist appeared with a pop. “Yes, Little Master?”

Orion smiled at his nanny elf. “Father has rejected Walburga’s suit, and told me I must find a good, proper witch to court.”

Twist nodded approvingly. “Master Arcturus is a wise wizard, Little Master.” 

Orion handed the envelope over to the elf, a test for both elf and witch. “Twist, would you please give this to Mademoiselle Antimony Carrefour?”

Twist squeaked as she took the small black envelope, and looked up at Orion. “Young Master is considering courting this witch?”

“If she says yes.” Orion said with a little smile. “Will you put it into her hands for me?”

Twist squeaked excitedly and held the envelope reverently. “I will deliver it right now, Young Master!” She disappeared with a pop and Orion smirked as he threw the fizzing whizbee into the number two cauldron.

* * *

Antimony had been chatting happily with Lucretia, Hermione being strongly reminded of Nymphadora Tonks, when the house-elf arrived with a pop. 

“Twist?” Melania questioned, as all the ladies stopped conversing in surprise. Good house elves were rarely seen by guests, and it was nearly unheard of at a party like this. 

“Apologies, Missy Melania.” Twist squeaked. The elf zeroed in on the witch in question, ears flapping. “Young Master Orion asked me to deliver a courting card, he did.”

Walburga’s face exploded into a smug smile, her cheeks going pink. 

“I see.” Melania said, knowing, as Orion did, that Twist would never hand a card to a witch who was a threat to her charge. It was why many families kept nanny elves into adulthood and even for their own children later. “You may, of course.”

Walburga pushed back from the tea table as whispers broke out across the table. While beginning a courtship _wasn’t_ the same as an engagement, it was a definite declaration of interest that someday might become one. 

The elf, holding the envelope like a sacred charge, walked across the garden stones with purpose. Walburga started to put out a hand, but Twists just kept walking, and extended the envelope to Antimony. “This is for you.”

“Thank you very much.” Antimony replied, smiling at the elf. She carefully broke the silver seal, removing the card, which was embossed on the front with Orion’s name and the Black crest. She flipped it over, noting a shift like a disillusionment charm across the text, revealing that he had hidden another message that she could not read in public. 

_ Miss Antimony Carrefour, _

_ I do hope you’ll forgive me for being a gentleman and accept this card. I would very much like to take you to dinner sometime later this week, if you are amenable. I have sworn to follow you anywhere, after all. _

Hermione felt particularly victorious that she had helped Orion escape Walbura, who was currently changing twenty different colours. She felt strange that she was considering accepting the card, when she had known Orion so little. Still, there was something that drew her to him, and it  _ wasn’t  _ a betrothal.  Antimony was just as interested in the mystery of Orion Black as Hermione was. She reached into her reticule and withdrew one of Antimony’s own cards, something Asphodel had insisted on, turned it once in her palm, and wandlessly and silently blew a spell onto it. Sometimes having two lives and two kinds of training and education were quite helpful. She flicked it once, and then handed it with a smile back to the elf. “Please give this to your master, and tell him I won’t run too quickly.”

The elf beamed. “I shall, Missy Carrefour!” And the elf disappeared with a pop. 

The attendees to the tea all began with congratulations and Walburga let out a shriek, as porcelain shattered under her rage.

* * *

Orion heard the crash from his place at the top of the stairs and grinned to himself, hoping he got the answer he wanted.

Twist reappeared with a trademark pop of elf apparition. “Little Master!” The elf said happily. “Here you are, Little Master. She said she wouldn’t run too quickly.”

Orion chuckled. “Well, I’m not named after the hunter for nothing.”


End file.
